The man we were looking for was named Weber, and he was scared out of his mind.
I could see it the moment he walked into the café in his darting eyes, his hunched shoulders, and the way he scanned every corner of the room before committing to a single step forward. He moved like a rabbit who had just noticed the shadow of a hawk, all twitchy with barely suppressed panic.
Bisch had arranged the meeting.
Weber had been one of Aldric’s wartime contacts, a minor functionary in the Swiss banking system who had helped move resistance money during the occupation. He had stayed in touch with the monk over the years through occasional letters and a few rare visits, the kind of tenuous connection that survived more on habit than necessity. When Bisch reached out to him through intermediaries, Weber had agreed to meet.
But looking at him now, I wasn’t sure he’d survive the conversation.
The café was a small establishment in the Altstadt, all dark wood and brass fittings. Had it not reeked of fresh coffee, I might’ve thought it one of my favorite pubs back home. We arrived early, claimed a table in the back corner with clear sightlines to both exits, and ordered drinks we had no intention of finishing. It was all standard tradecraft.
Weber spotted the Baroness. She was difficult to miss even when trying to be inconspicuous. He made his way toward our table with the enthusiasm of a man approaching his own execution.
“Baroness.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “I should not be here.”
“And yet you are.” She gestured to the empty chair across from her. “Please, Herr Weber, sit. We only wish to talk.”
He lowered himself into the chair but didn’t relax. His hands remained in his lap, clenched into fists, and his eyes kept flicking toward the door like he expected armed men to burst through at any moment.
“I knew Aldric,” he said, still whispering. “We worked together during the war. He was a good man. A holy man until the end.”
“He was,” the Baroness agreed. “And now he is dead.”
Weber flinched as if she had slapped him. “I heard. I—” He swallowed hard. “When I heard, I almost did not answer Herr Bisch’s message. I thought perhaps it would be safer to pretend I knew nothing, to disappear.”
“Why didn’t you?” I asked.
He looked at me for the first time, clearly trying to decide if I was a friend or a threat. Whatever he saw must have reassured him, because some of the tension eased from his shoulders.
“Because Aldric was my friend,” he said simply. “And because whatever is happening is bigger than my fear.”
Will leaned forward. “What do you mean, ‘whatever is happening’?”
Weber’s gaze fell to the table. He spoke so quietly I had to strain to hear him over the murmur of the café. “Three months ago, I was approached by a man. He was well dressed and professional, the kind of man who belongs in boardrooms and government offices. He said he represented certain interests that were concerned about the stability of Swiss banking. He asked questions about accounts I had handled during the war, about the networks we used to move money.”
“What kind of questions?” the Baroness asked.
“Specific ones. He knew names, routing numbers, and contacts in other countries, information only someone with intimate knowledge ofour operations would know or think to ask.” Weber’s hands emerged from his lap. They were trembling. “I told him nothing, of course, but he did not seem surprised. He said he already knew most of it. He said he was simply verifying.”
“Did he identify himself?” Will asked. “Give you a name, an organization?”
“I do not remember it.” Weber hesitated, his face contorting with something that looked like fear warring with the need to unburden himself. “I know this will sound strange, but I did not write it down. I did not want to remember him. There was something about him, about the way he spoke, the phrases he used. I recognized them.”
“Recognized them from where?”
“From the war.” Weber’s voice dropped even lower. “From the Order.”
“You’re certain?” the Baroness asked, her voice carefully controlled.
“No. And that is the problem. I am uncertain of anything.” Weber ran a hand over his face, and I saw the dark circles under his eyes and the gray pallor of his skin. “His rhetoric and coded phrases were the same, but something was also different. During the war, the Order was . . . religious. They were fanatics, yes, but their fanaticism was directed toward God or some twisted vision of divine purpose. This man—” He shook his head. “This man spoke of politics. He spoke of power and restoration.”
“Restoration?” I repeated.
“He used that word several times.” Weber leaned closer, his eyes wide and urgent. “I have heard whispers, Baroness, whispers of something being rebuilt. I do not believe it refers to the Order, but something new, something that wears the Order’s face but serves a different purpose.”
“Different masters?” Will asked.
Weber nodded, a jerky motion. “Perhaps, but I can prove nothing. I have only whispers, fragments, and the feeling that something terrible is taking shape.” He looked at the Baroness with something approaching desperation. “Aldric believed it, too. He wrote to me a month before he died. He said he was close to understanding what was happening. He said he had found connections between the old Order’s networks and new money flowing through channels that should have been closed years ago.”
